


Clouds

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-30 20:53:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10884726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Olórin tells Aiwendil he must go to Middle Earth.





	Clouds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Solarfox123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solarfox123/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for auniverseforgotten’s “33. “I missed something didn’t I?” Gandalf/Radagast” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/160417565360/prompt-list).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings or The Silmarillion or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Olórin is one of the few who speaks to him, and Olórin speaks of many things. Aiwendil always _tries_ to listen, and at first, it’s easy; he _likes_ the soothing timber of Olórin’s voice, and he adores the spark in Olórin’s blue-grey eyes. But Olórin is just so very _wise_ and knows so many concepts that soar right over Aiwendil’s head. So, more often then not, when Olórin’s speech runs long, Aiwendil’s attention drifts away. Now it’s a dove that catches him, whiter than Olórin’s robes and high above, dancing among the clouds. Aiwendil watches its sweeping circles as Olórin’s lilting voice drifts over him. The sky is blue and bright, the hill thick with lush grass, and the world seems a wondrous place. Aiwendil spreads his arms to feel the air and mimic his far off friend.

Olórin scolds, “ _Aiwen_ ,” and Aiwendil starts, coming to with a fresh blush. 

He bends himself to bow and mumbles, “I apologize.” When he straightens again, he takes in properly the change that’s come over Olórin’s face. He looked heavy when he first arrived, but Aiwendil had simply thought it the burden of such great knowledge. But evidently something in Olórin’s speech has troubled him, because there’s a deep sadness in his eyes that makes Aiwendil’s heart sink. 

He asks quietly, “I have missed something, haven’t I?” He’s always doing that. Even when the Valar speak, it’s so easy to get lost in other things, like the scurry of little feet and the widening arc of great wings, and even the trees themselves sometimes call to him...

Olórin lets out a withered sigh. It’s times like this that lines come onto his face Aiwendil tends to overlook. Some moments, Olórin is young and bright, new as the day they first formed together. Other times, he looks aged many centuries, and this becomes one of them, though he still stands tall.

“I will apologize,” Olórin mutters, “for I know your attention span when your friends call. I should have just come out with it and said bluntly what I mean to, though I do not wish to. I am leaving, Aiwendil. That is the brunt of it.”

Olórin says it so simply, as though that’s _that_ , but Aiwendil reels back in shock. He knows it can’t simply mean leaving the _here_ in the _right now_ , for Olórin does that often, and it doesn’t matter; they find one another again. Olórin can always find him. But Olórin speaks like he’s going _away_ , and Aiwendil stumbles, presses, “Where? When? ... _Why_?” 

“I am leave these shores,” Olórin answers, with a vague gesture in the direction of the sea. “And soon. The why is another matter that we have all been told in some measure, but the depth of it I cannot say.”

Aiwendil genuinely doesn’t understand. He can feel the colour and the heat draining from him, though he’s never before understood when the Eldar claimed to be _cold_. He feels faintly dizzy, like the ends of his fingers have left him, and his control is seeping back towards his head alone, which won’t last long. It’s as though his wings have been ripped away from him.

His mouth works, but he has nothing much to say that will do any good. He’s infinitely aware that Olórin’s more _important_ than him, and if Olórin says he must go, then he must go, though Aiwendil couldn’t bear to be here _alone_. His friends are not enough. They don’t speak to him as Olórin does. Even _Yavanna_ isn’t enough.

Aiwendil lunges forward to latch onto Olórin, grabbing both his shoulders and insisting, “But you _cannot_!” 

Wearing a gentle frown, Olórin quietly returns, “I fear to go as well, if it is any consolation to you. I do not think myself nearly so wise as all else do, but I have been chosen, and I will serve. I... am sorry.”

Sorry isn’t enough. Aiwendil shakes his head, getting flecks of brown hair into his eyes with the wind. It’s messy from rolling in the grass, and he’d hoped to dishevel Olórin’s too, hoped to have time to run his fingers through Olórin’s silken grey mane. The thought of not being able to again is _terrifying_. He licks his dry lips and mutters, “Then... then I will go too...”

“The four are chosen,” Olórin tells him. 

“I will beg Yavanna to make me the fifth!” Olórin dons a small smile, and Aiwendil insists, “You may have need of me—the land is strange there, but I may still speak to the birds, to the animals. And my power is not so great as yours, but what I have... I will lend it gladly...”

Olórin lifts a hand to cup Aiwendil’s cheek. It’s the warmth Aiwendil needs, and he leans into Olórin’s smooth palm, eyes trembling near tears. Olórin murmurs, “I would not have thought you would wish to leave the innocence of these shores.”

“I would not,” Aiwendil admits, “but what good are all these spotless lands if you are not in them?”

Olórin chuckles then, and though it’s good to see him free of the frown, Aiwendil’s chest is still tight. “Aiwen, you will have your birds!”

“But will I have _you_? I stay with them now, yes, but only because I know that you will come for me again, and I will have you then. If it is _only_ them, devoid of you...”

With a sigh heavier than ever, Olórin says, “I feel guilt for it, but I do hope you will come. It is wilder across the sea, I hear, and holds more wilderness and creatures than Valinor could ever hold. I think you will find many to like.”

“And still have you to love,” Aiwendil insists with a swell of relief. He doesn’t let go of Olórin’s robes as he proclaims, “I will plead with Yavanna as soon as I may, and until then, I will not let you go, Olórin! My birds will have to wait—we must savour this, while we may!”

“You speak as if we go to our doom,” Olórin chuckles. “Those lands are bitter compared to this sweet place, but they are not death...”

“They are _mortal_ ,” Aiwendil insists, “And things die there.”

A horrid thought suddenly occurs to him, and he’s glad to have learned of this and insisted on coming too. He leans forward to runs his hands around Olórin’s shoulders, embracing him properly, crushes him in and mutters just in case, “You must promise not to forget me; there, even memories die.”

Olórin holds him back. Wrapping both arms thickly around his waist, Olórin pulls him close and hooks a strong chin over his shoulder. Into his ear, Olórin murmurs, “Mine will not, at least of you; I promise that.” He turns to kiss Aiwendil’s cheek, and Aiwendil shivers, clinging tight.

It’s several long moments before Aiwendil pulls away again. As he does, Olórin keeps both hands on him, keeping him steady. Olórin even pecks Aiwendil’s forehead and hums, “Come, now. We may still enjoy our world for a time.”

Aiwendil nods insistently and tilts in to kiss him, means to kiss him _more_ , but merely ends up embracing him again, hugging tight, while the dove cries obliviously above.


End file.
